


Pulling Your Leg (Pulling Your Heartstrings)

by Love_Letter, nimbosa



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Comedy, Communication Skills in Development, M/M, Pulling Pranks, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:27:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26494120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Love_Letter/pseuds/Love_Letter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimbosa/pseuds/nimbosa
Summary: Pranks, Crowley discovered, were infinitely more satisfying when you were there to see them play out. There were fewer things in the world he enjoyed more than Aziraphale’s face after he’d been tricked. The shock, the realization, the following glare— never one of hatred, for the angel wasn’t capable of that, but one that nevertheless promised retaliation.Crowley’s plans for The Arrangement were professional.The pranks were personal.(A look into 6000 years of how a demon and an angel show their love.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 60
Collections: GO-Events POV Pairs Works





	Pulling Your Leg (Pulling Your Heartstrings)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens POV Pairs event, featuring love_letter writing for Crowley and nimbosa for Aziraphale. We hope you'll enjoy our story!

  
  


* * *

**The Garden of Eden**

Crowley invented pranks— not intentionally, mind you. That is to say, it _was_ intentional, but he did not call it a prank at the time. He would only claim the sport as his own upon reflection a couple of centuries later. 

It was in the Garden of Eden and he needed the Guardian of the Eastern Gate to leave his post overlooking the apple tree. There was trouble to be accomplished. 

The snake slithered his way along the wall, stopping to hiss at the angel’s feet, “Did you _sss_ eee that?”

The angel startled, looking down. “See what?”

“The talking berries over on the North side. Absolutely wild. Starting screaming at Eve when she tried to pluck one off the bush.”

“Talking berries, you say?”

“Ye _ssss_ .”

“That rather sounds like something I should check on. I didn’t think they were supposed to talk.” He looked concerned, eyebrows furrowing and mumbling to himself, “Have I been protecting the wrong fruit?”

As the angel took off along the wall by foot, Crawly delighted in the extra time his choosing not to take flight would grant him. There was no talking fruit, just a talking snake, and he had words to weave into temptation. 

  
  
  


When he met the angel again, he was disappointed the berries were not mentioned. He supposed the banishment of humans from the garden had rather taken his mind off the lie. There had been a part of him that’d wished to see the angel’s indignation. The fretting wasn’t nearly as entertaining as he had hoped. It did not feel good.

Which was good, probably, for a demon. 

* * *

**A Couple Centuries Later**

"—and this one is rather sweet—I'm not so fond of it myself—"

But as it turned out, Crowley loved dates. Figs, too — they had that one in common — and strawberries, and even citrons, which Aziraphale enjoyed but were ultimately more trouble than the scant amount of fruit was worth.

And speaking of trouble — "Here," he said, handing Crowley a section of pomegranate.

It wasn't revenge. It wasn't even punishment. It wasn't anything at all, because he didn't _do_ anything, really, he simply _didn't_ do something, and if Crowley ate whatever was in front of him, the consequences were his to put up with, and perhaps he would even learn a thing or two about low-hanging fruit.

Crowley bit into the pomegranate slice - flesh and all - and Aziraphale couldn’t fully suppress a grin. It widened when Crowley’s face contorted into a grimace as he started chewing.

“One of my favorites,” Aziraphale said innocently.

“Is it,” Crowley said, looking massively uncomfortable. “It’s, uh,” he seemed to think about something for a moment — he thought about things an awful lot, and Aziraphale was getting used to the look of it 1— then spat out the fruit pulp all at once. “I’ll leave them for you and the humans, then.”

“You’re only supposed to eat the seeds,” Aziraphale said, because he couldn’t help himself.

“What?”

“The little red things. They’re the good part.” He plucked one from the remaining fruit and popped it in his mouth. The aril burst, its juice tart on his tongue. ”You’re not—” and here he briefly dissolved into giggling. “You’re not to eat the rest of it, it tastes awful.”

Crowley’s grimace became something like a pout. “Could have said,” he muttered.

_But I like your face, I like seeing all the shapes it makes_ , Aziraphale thought, and then immediately un-thought it. Instead of saying anything, he offered Crowley another aril. And Crowley, though he looked dubious, took it from him.

He closed his eyes as he ate it, and he looked as if he were concentrating. Then he nodded, and Aziraphale was sure he wasn’t imagining the rise in his cheeks, or the tiny upwards curl in his lips.

“Yeah, alright, that’s much better.”

“It’s the best one,” Aziraphale said, staring at Crowley’s mouth, and then hurriedly putting more fruit in his own before it could do anything else.

  
  


* * *

**The Kingdom of West Essex (Arthurian Times)**

  
  


Pranks, Crowley discovered, were infinitely more satisfying when you were there to see them play out. There were fewer things in the world he enjoyed more than Aziraphale’s face after he’d been tricked. The shock, the realization, the following glare— never one of hatred, for the angel wasn’t capable of that, but one that nevertheless promised retaliation.

Crowley’s plans for The Arrangement were professional. 

The pranks were personal. 

  
  


After a damp day stomping through the wet forests of England, Crowley came upon Aziraphale’s camp. He was determined to follow up on his suggestion from the week before. He was done with being a knight in shining black armor. In fact, he had already shed the metal in favor of more comfortable, casual clothing. He was eager to go spend a couple years sunbathing in desert sands somewhere far, far away from King Arthur and his ridiculous oblong table. 

Aziraphale must be near exhausted with their politics and weather. 

The angel was dismounting his horse when he arrived. Crowley watched him waddle towards one of the bigger tents and mentally amended that the angel was likely tired of horses too. 

He slipped through the other men of Aziraphale’s camp unnoticed and came to Aziraphale’s tent. He quietly shifted aside the fabric of the entrance, peering inside. The angel was just pulling off his helmet. Crowley snapped his fingers and suddenly the white knight was frozen, hands and helmet suspended above his head. 

Maybe frozen wasn’t the right word. Stuck was better. He watched as Aziraphale struggled within his temporary cage, fighting the crusted chainmail and metallic coverings to move his limbs. It did not take long until he knocked himself over with a large clanging smash that Crowley made sure no one else heard. As the helmet rolled across the floor, he made his presence known, strutting in with a too-pleased grin. 

“Angel, you haven’t been taking proper care in the rain, have you?”

“ _Crowley_.”

Ah, the frustration was music to his ears. “Hm?”

“What have you _done_?”

He stared down at the red-faced angel as he teetered turtle-like on his back, unable to right himself. “Me? You’re the one who let his armor rust.”

“Let me out this instant, you foul creature.”

Crowley did no such thing, choosing instead to sit himself on Aziraphale’s sleeping cot (which he no doubt had only for appearance’s sake) and lift his arms into the sky, popping his joints. “Stretching feels so good. Couldn’t do that properly wearing armor.” He relaxed back into the blankets, looking up at the cloth ceiling, “One of the reasons I decided to quit being a knight.” 

The sound of squeaky struggling paused. “You quit?”

“Yeah, bored with it. Saw some stuff happening with Gwenny and decided the humans don’t need my meddling anymore. They do enough damage to themselves.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Lancelot?” 

“Ooo, not as oblivious as I thought you were.”

“Well, they’re not as subtle as _they_ think they are.”

Crowley nodded, not realizing the angel wouldn’t be able to see him. The soft sound of rain began, beating gently against the tent. He was glad to have shelter. He was not a fan of being wet. 

“Maybe it is time to move on.”

The demon rolled over, propping his head up with one arm to look over the edge of the bed and down at his not-quite-prisoner, “Yeah?”

“Like you said, no sense in cancelling each other out, especially if the humans are ignoring our words anyway...”

Crowley could almost taste victory. “I knew you were clever. Ready to discuss an arrangement?”

“Will you help me out of his armor?”

As funny as it would have been _not_ to do that, Crowley realized bigger things were at stake. He would find another way to prank the angel, after they had come to the terms of their agreement. 

“Can do, angel.” 

* * *

**Early 1600's (See: Shakespeare)**

Aziraphale flitted through the crowd in a near constant stream of pardon-me-excuse-me-terribly-sorry-thank-you-ever-so-much, trying not to bump people too hard. He'd given up on not bumping them at all as soon as he’d spotted just how many had turned out.

He was late. This wouldn't be happening if he wasn't late. Crowley often had remarkable patience for Aziraphale arriving a few minutes after their scheduled meeting time, but this was different, this was—

“ _ Prove that ever I lose more blood with love _ —”

Aziraphale perked up despite himself. He had missed Crowley’s entrance, but that voice never failed to delight him.

He motioned quickly and the last few people in his way stepped aside without knowing exactly why, or even bothering to wonder. He didn’t want them to notice him, either, so they didn’t. He wished he had some snacks - grapes, maybe, the memory of that day sweet in his mouth - but some things can’t be helped. He settled in to watch the play and quickly forgot all about it.

Crowley, it turned out, was a grandiose actor. Aziraphale hadn’t expected anything different, but was glad to see it confirmed nonetheless. His movements were sweeping and graceful, his face a whirl of emotion, even behind the spectacles he had somehow convinced everyone to let him wear on stage. Every line was something special.

Was it a little much? Yes. Did Aziraphale love it? Yes. Was he biased, perhaps? Certainly not and how dare anyone make such an accusation.

He was so caught up in the show that it completely slipped his mind why he was there - to let Crowley know he was watching, that he knew about Crowley’s latest hobby, the one he had for some reason went out of his way to keep a secret from Aziraphale - until he was cheering and clapping at the end and finally, finally caught Crowley’s eye.

Or so he thought. Crowley, drinking in the admiration of the crowd, looked right over him. But surely he had recognized Aziraphale? His outfit was perhaps a bit more dull than his usual for this era 2, as he’d been relying on blending in with the other theatregoers to not give himself away too soon.

The other theatregoers. The ones he had miracled to not notice him. Oh, of _course_.

A touch irritably, Aziraphale dispelled the bit of misdirection, and the next time Crowley looked his way, he smiled and waved.

He had planned on doing this during the play, but given how much Crowley seemed to enjoy it up there - and knowing how easily flustered and tongue-tied he could get - perhaps that would have been cruel. Aziraphale didn’t want to humiliate him in front of all these people. Crowley’s gobsmacked face, growing redder by the second and trained on only him, was much better suited for the curtain call.

* * *

**Early 1800's**

Aziraphale’s bookshop was exactly like him— despite being “new,” it had the distinct atmosphere of an old library, stuffed to the brim with knowledge of by-gone days, its architecture outdated, but not outdated enough to be considered classic or antique. Welcoming and moderately intimidating, Crowley sensed it would become the kind of shop only two types of humans would come to enter: the zealous collector, and the fool. 

After throwing Gabriel off of Aziraphale and ensuring he’d get to enjoy his bookshop, Crowley would occasionally stop by to see how he was doing (and to check he was still there). He didn’t want Aziraphale to know he was worried though, so he set about making small mischief with each visit. Rearranging books when the angel wasn’t looking, flipping them to be spine-in, titles hidden, and — this, he was quite proud of — adding price tags to shelves where there were none previously, just to strike up debate between the bookseller and his unwanted customers. It was particularly rewarding if Crowley was around to hear their arguments. 

Aziraphale caught onto the price tags after a few weeks, removing them in a huff and snapping at Crowley to stop. His books were incredibly valuable and not, “Two for a half farthing! _Really!_ ”

Crowley stopped adding price tags. He did not, however, stop rearranging and flipping books. 

* * *

**Late 1800's**  
  


It wasn’t the same, you see. He spent a few months after their row going about his business as usual, only with one more thing to not stop and think about, and then he found himself in Mayfair, asking after a gentleman with dark glasses and red hair. And then he found himself in a bedroom, regarding a mostly-empty tin of liquorice drops with disgust.

“I do believe,” he said, “this may be the worst candy it’s possible to invent, from all of God’s creation.”

There was no response, because the gentleman - red hair, but no glasses at the moment - was asleep.

“A century in and they haven’t managed to top it, have they?” he continued, and the tin was surprised to find itself in a bedside drawer, though not as surprised as the bowl of dark chocolate nonpareils that had appeared in its place.

Nowhere near satisfied, Aziraphale reorganized the folio collection in order of Crowley’s favorite to least favorite, or his best guess, at any rate. Then he glared at that ridiculous top hat until it shortened itself obligingly. Then he moved a sketch of Galileo’s to where one of Ptolemy’s had been, and stowed the latter away neatly along with the folios, which he rearranged again for good measure - the same order, but reversed.

“I really should have taken you to more of the gloomy ones,” he said, setting a vase of peonies on the table.

They saw Romeo and Juliet exactly once. They both agreed it was awful, though they had still managed to argue about exactly why over dinner.

He continued his rummaging and fussing and ranting and imagined Crowley conscious through all of it, dogging his steps and chewing him out for his bad taste and worse manners and worst-of-all dramatic analysis. And then he came back and did it again, and again, and again until it started to infuriate him, and then several years passed and he wandered through the door to that flat and had to attempt to explain himself to its new tenant, and he was still unsure if that was better or worse than if he’d had to attempt to explain himself to its old one.

And it was never, not once, the same.

* * *

**1930's**

Strictly speaking, Crowley did not _need_ to eat. For that reason, when he did eat, he wanted to make sure the flavor of the food was worth the effort of chewing it, and that might be the reason he ended up with a bit of a sweet tooth. The 19th century made sugar edible in many different ways. Crowley took credit for candy: for the highs and lows of a sugar rush, and for children incessantly begging their parents for _just one piece, pleasepleaseplease_ at the market. 

Fairy floss-- now that was a great one. Pure sugar, as innocent in appearance as a cumulus cloud on a sunny day. Not much substance, but it didn’t need to be. Its appeal was all in the color and texture, the sticky residue on one’s fingers as the softness melted in one’s mouth. Crowley was very excited to share his discovery of it with Aziraphale after visiting America one summer. 3

Aziraphale had delighted in the treat as much as he had. 

A couple of decades passed. The Americans changed the name to “cotton candy.” The change was needless, but it gave Crowley an idea. The fairy floss certainly _looked_ like cotton.

He prepared a bag of pink and blue dyed cotton and showed up to the bookshop. “Angel, that candy shop a couple streets down got a fairy floss machine.” 

“Ooo, did they?” Aziraphale popped out from between bookshelves, “Any good?”

“Dunno. Brought some for you to try.”

“How very kind.”

It was not kind; the reality of the situation was the only reason he did not object to the praise. If anything, that should have tipped the angel off to the fact he was up to no good. He passed Aziraphale the bag and sauntered into the back of the shop, flopping down onto his favorite sofa. 

“What drink goes well with fairy floss, do you think? Something summery, maybe lemonade…”

Crowley waited patiently until Aziraphale joined him, sitting in his usual armchair. He’d brought a tray with a pitcher of iced water and lemon slices (“I suppose the candy floss is enough sugar by itself.”) and two tall glasses. He poured them both drinks and opened the bag of cotton. Crowley lowered his sunglasses to get the full range of expression. 

Aziraphale tore a chunk from the fluffy mass and put it directly into his mouth.

Crowley held his breath. 

Aziraphale hummed his approval, taking another bite’s worth from the bag. 

“How’s the taste?” Crowley asked, admittedly disappointed by the lack of visual reaction. 

“Fairly standard. Would you like some?”

Eyes narrowing, Crowley reached out and pulled a wad of cotton out of the packaging. It felt different than when he had placed it inside. It also smelled… he darted his tongue out, tasting the air… sweet. He begrudgingly put it into his mouth. Fairy floss. It was _fairy floss._

“Ugh.” Crowley slumped dramatically back onto the sofa. 

“Come now, it’s not that bad.”

“It’s not what I wanted,” he grumbled. 

What it was, was exactly what Aziraphale had expected it to be. Crowley had not figured unconscious miracles into the prank. 

* * *

**2000's**

It was a lovely day. Just cold enough to _really_ enjoy the tea outdoors, even if he was taking his inside for now. One must make sacrifices, after all, for one’s good work. But the skies were clear, the streets weren’t too crowded, and no one seemed to mind if he kept a table to himself for a while, so long as he occasionally ordered a biscuit and tipped well.

Someone’s step faltered in the stream of passersby, and it caught Aziraphale’s eye. He stalwartly suppressed a wriggle of excitement. It simply wouldn’t do, to call attention to himself. It’d ruin the whole afternoon.

The person crouched down and reached for something small and shiny on the sidewalk. They picked it up with ease, stood back up, and continued on with their day, which would involve a bit of candy, or some pop from a vending machine, or a little extra in a tip jar. Something that made their day just a smidge brighter. Presumably.

A lot of this is “presumably”, in fact. Aziraphale stopped paying attention to this stranger several sentences ago.

His focus was on one of the outside tables, where a black-clad man in snakeskin boots was looking not at all as if he were up to anything. He wasn’t looking sneaky, or smug, or sinister, or wily. Aziraphale had witnessed him not moments ago adding a truly ungodly amount of sweetener to his drink, but that was normal for him.

He was looking, given his dumbfounded expression, given his hanging jaw and elevated eyebrows, well and truly _thwarted_.

Aziraphale tried not to laugh. He could almost hear Crowley in his head, sputtering in outrage: _I put the- it wa- I glued it! Glued! I checked the- it- you seein’ this, angel? How-_

_Yes, dear,_ Aziraphale thought, _I saw you do it. Perhaps it wasn’t dry yet?_

He didn’t really have to imagine. He could see Crowley working it out in front of him, or trying to, at any rate, his face contorting, his fingers drumming on the table. Was it dry? Yes. Did he test it himself? Of course, he’s no amateur. Maybe he’d loosened it when he tried to pull it up, though. Maybe the glue - the little bottle he just pulled from his coat pocket to examine with such intensity that he was surely trying to intimidate it - was defective. Maybe his victim was some sort of superhuman with immense strength well past the threshold of what you could get between metal and concrete.

Those were the sort of things Crowley would think. And their rendezvous wasn’t scheduled for another twenty-seven minutes, so Aziraphale was content to sit for a while and watch him think them.

Yes, it was a lovely day.

* * *

**After Armage-not-done**

Crowley was nervous. It was, compared to the history of his existence, a relatively new kind of nervous. Since the world hadn’t ended, he and Aziraphale had changed the conditions of their relationship. That is to say, they were actually in a relationship, as humans would define it (and likely had for years, in their quiet observations). 

Their lunches and dinners became official “dates.” In public, they sat close on benches and held hands walking through the park. In private, they embraced, sharing tender kisses and intimacies that left Crowley feeling hollowed out and vulnerable in a way that, yes, made him nervous. It was good in a way he did not believe demons were meant to feel. He knew he was loved with a certainty he had not felt since his Fall. 

He simultaneously could not believe the realities of his life and wanted to do everything in his power to keep their relationship growing. 

Crowley had a plan. He’d found a perfect little cottage for them outside of London. Enough room for the books. A garden. Just a short drive from the seashore. After millennia, he could finally spirit Aziraphale away and not worry about their duties. They could simply be. Together. 

He did not know how to express this desire to Aziraphale. They were working on communication skills. 

He did a lot of reading on the internet. He bought a ring. He made a reservation at the Ritz. 

The plan was: Have a wonderful dinner, insist Aziraphale order dessert, and while he was distracted talking to the waiter, slip the ring into his champaign. Then, he would wait for him to notice and smoothly ask if he’d like to spend the rest of eternity living together. 

The first half of the meal went exactly as anticipated. “Dessert, angel?”

“I don’t know.”

The usual hem-and-haw. “You do like the cakes here, don’t you?”

“I do,” Aziraphale confirmed, “But the entree was rather heavy today. I’m not sure I have room, and I didn’t see anything that particularly struck my fancy when we had the menu earlier.” 

That threw a wrench into the plan. He made up a lie on the spot, “Not even the seasonal dessert? It looked like some kind of mango mousse.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t see that. Mango mousse _does_ sound nice.”

The resident patissier would be very surprised, in a few minutes, to discover said dessert ready to serve in the chiller. As Aziraphale turned to catch their waiter’s attention, Crowley carefully dropped the ring into the angel’s half-filled champagne glass. It sunk to the bottom with the faintest of clinks, not heard over Aziraphale’s voice as he requested the mousse (to a waiter who, despite his brain’s insistence, could not bring himself to verbally question an off-menu order). Crowley watched the bubbles fizzle and settle around it. 

He waited. 

Aziraphale turned back to him and began talking, none the wiser of the serpent’s deed. He continued not to notice for a too-long stretch of time that made Crowley start to fidget. The mousse was delivered, and to Crowley’s relief and chagrin, the waiter topped off their champaign. Surely _now_ the angel would notice. 

Except that he was much too focused on the dessert, eyes almost glittering as he took in its plating: a dollop of light and fluffy orange mousse topped with fresh cut mango and whipped cream, drizzled in a pink passionfruit syrup, delicately garnished with mint. Crowley might have overdone it. The price he paid was more time waiting, trying not to squirm in his seat. 

It was not until he’d finished the plate that Aziraphale took up his drink and said, “Oh dear, there’s a ring in my glass.”

Crowley sat up straight, expecting the angel would turn and look at him. He did not. Instead, he twisted fully in the opposite direction, calling, “Maître d'--”

_“Don’t call him over!”_ Crowley hissed. 

Aziraphale finally faced him, “Whyever not? It must have slipped off when he was filling my glass.” 

“ _I_ put it in your glass.” 

Aziraphale lifted the glass closer to his face, eyeing the ring as it bobbed at the bottom, “It’s your ring? I never saw you wear it.” He smiled fondly. “Been so long since you played a prank on me, dear. How long were you waiting for me to notice?”

“It’s not a prank.” He deliberately ignored the question. “It’s a question.” 

The angel’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion. “I don’t understand.” 

In hindsight, maybe putting the ring into a glass of champagne _wasn’t_ the best idea. He could not offer it to Aziraphale or slide it onto his finger, or even kneel with it like he’d seen generations of humans do. “I found a house, out in the South Downs.”

Aziraphale set the drink down. “And…?”

“And I was thinking it might be nice to retire out there. With you.”

“You’re asking me to move in with you?”

“Yeah.”

Aziraphale smiled wide, reaching out to hold either side of the embarrassed demon’s face, “Of course I will.” With a mortifying degree of affection, he kissed Crowley’s forehead. “Now, what’s the ring for?”

“Seemed traditional,” he mumbled. 

“Is this a _marriage_ proposal?”

“Ngk.”

That’s exactly what it was. 

* * *

**Modern Day**

Aziraphale was reading. Or he was trying to read, or, failing that, at least look like he was reading. He was out in the little patio in the garden - Crowley’s garden - _their_ garden - really more Crowley’s, but he hadn’t tired of calling everything here _theirs_ yet. And he sat out here, didn’t he? In the fresh air and among the flowers. It was a place he enjoyed even if Crowley took care of most of the actual tending of the plants, and Aziraphale’s contribution was limited to occasionally over-watering something and then coddling it with all the miraculous power it could want until it decided it wasn’t over-watered after all. So it was theirs, when you thought about it. And he did.

He thought about it a lot that morning, coaxing some vines this way and that, weaving in blooms that by rights shouldn’t grow so gangly and free, but here they are. They take after their gardener - yes, the one walking out into their backyard right now.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale greeted, a little too loudly for this early in the morning.

Crowley smiled sleepily. "Aziraphale."

Aziraphale watched him stretch admiringly, waiting for a reaction that didn't come. Instead, Crowley slunk over to him, then loomed over him, stealing a kiss - and, Aziraphale realized when they broke apart, his coffee.

That was alright. He was never going to drink it; he took his the way he took his tea, no sugar, and he was sure Crowley could smell all the horrifically strong flavoured syrups he had dumped into this one, and knew who it was waiting on the table for.

He felt something soft settle in his chest as his husband downed most of the lukewarm concoction in one go. Marriage really was something, wasn't it.

"Good morning, dearest," he said, and beckoned. Crowley happily settled in his lap. Aziraphale was his favorite pillow, and though he was a morning person this was perhaps a bit early even for him. 4

Crowley sighed and looked out over their garden, and the contentment on his gorgeous face faded into puzzlement. "Now what happened _here_ ," he wondered.

"Not sure," Aziraphale said quickly. "Didn't see anything. What is it?" It was a bad lie and he knew it. But deceiving Crowley wasn't really the point.

Crowley gestured towards one of the trellises, crawling with a variety of leaves and petals that had caught Aziraphale's eye. Most were some kind of rich green, of course, but quite a few were such a deep red or purple they were almost black. Small flowers of varying colors dotted the shape throughout, and the whole thing stood out nicely against the white painted wood.

"S'that-" Crowley sat up straighter. "Is that a heart?"

"And," Aziraphale said with a touch of pride, "a snake."

"A snake."

"Yes, look-" he pointed to two bright yellow flowers with black centers who had been gently convinced to relocate there from their usual spot a few meters away. "Those are the eyes, and see, it's biting its own tail." Sort of. Some of the leaves were less than cooperative. "And it makes a heart."

"I… see," Crowley said. He turned to face Aziraphale, obviously amused. "And how did my plants get in the shape of a snake, which is in the shape of a heart?"

"Don't know," Aziraphale said. "No idea, no. Maybe it just-" he wiggled his hand in the air - "happened. Maybe _you_ did it."

" _I_ did it.”

"Maybe."

"I am sure," Crowley said, really getting into the game now, "I'd remember doing this."

Aziraphale sighed deeply, in a _what-can-you-do_ sort of way. "Must have been without realizing.”

"Without-"

"Because you love me so much," Aziraphale interrupted, fluttering his eyelashes a bit.

It was true: Crowley did love him. He used to doubt it, to varying degrees, because how could he possibly be worthy of that? How could Crowley care as deeply for him as the tenderness he had always shown towards Aziraphale implied? And he would likely doubt it sometimes in the future, even if just a little. Feelings were pesky like that. But he was getting better at it, and there was no uncertainty in the moment.

And it must have shown 5, because Crowley paused, and Aziraphale could tell he was really considering it.

Then he shook his head and snorted in laughter. "Yeah, okay, no argument there." He kissed Aziraphale on the forehead, and lingered there, so when he spoke Aziraphale could feel his lips move. "Wonder if you love me that much. Maybe your bookshelves have something to say about that."

"You wouldn't," Aziraphale whined, as if Crowley had never before and never would again.

"Oh, _I_ wouldn't. Wouldn't be _my_ doing."

"I have a _system_ , you fiend."

"Better grow a little less fond of me, then."

Aziraphale _hmmed_ , but they both knew that it was out of the question, that he'd even grown to enjoy putting his books and bric-a-brac back in the proper places. That he couldn't be less fond of Crowley if he wanted to. And that he very much didn't.

**Footnotes:**

  1. He was also getting used to the feeling it gave him, which was a bubbly sort of anticipation for the moment when Crowley would voice what was on his mind out loud, though it would be quite some time before he stopped trying to rationalize this as an unobjectionable desire to better understand and thus more easily thwart his adversary, and even longer before he would admit he simply found Crowley, and everything he had to say, fascinating. One would think these two events would have to occur at more or less the same time, if one had never met Aziraphale. [ Click ▲ to return to text. ]
  2. It was a travesty. Not one thing on it sparkled. [ ▲ ]
  3. He’d been sent to create chaos at community fairs; the chaos, naturally, took care of itself. He played carnival games and ate deep fried food to the point where, had he been human, he would’ve developed a stomach ache. [ ▲ ]
  4. 4:37 AM, to be exact, not that Aziraphale had been keeping track, or had anything but the loosest grasp on the flow of time in the first place. [ ▲ ]
  5. Or it must have **_really_** been early. [ ▲ ]




End file.
